Suffocating
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Criss Angel tag: Dean was the one who was hanged, but Sam's the one who's struggling to breathe.


**Suffocating**  
K Hanna Korossy

Sam stopped as he got to the door of their room, taking a breath as he braced himself to go in. Dean was going to be either drunk or ticked off—or both—after Sam had walked out on him and the Magnificently Morose Magician Jay, and he wasn't looking forward to the argument, or the awkward avoidance of one. He didn't love working with Ruby again, but if Dean didn't see any future for them then it was on Sam to make one. He was ready to take on the burden of making the hard choices.

Didn't mean he wasn't dreading the fallout with his big brother. Sam grimaced at the door: he was a little brother to the last. Great. With a snort, he unlocked the door and went in.

The room was dark, the yellow light from the parking lot illuminating a lump in the nearer bed. Drunk then, but at least sleeping it off, Sam thought with relief. There'd be a Conversation, but at least not until tomorrow. Moving more quietly, he shut the door behind him and began easing out of his jacket.

The soft sounds, punctuated by sharp hisses at the end, didn't sink in until he had his shirt half-unbuttoned. Sam paused, uncertainty and a queasy little worry edging out his satisfaction. Taking a moment to confirm that, indeed, the strangled sound was coming from the bed, Sam frowned and stepped closer. "Dean?"

A raspy groan interrupted the odd whistle and hitch, but the recumbent figure barely stirred.

Sam swore softly to himself and turned and headed the opposite way, back toward the door. The Impala was sitting in her usual spot right outside, and Sam made quick work of getting the first aid kit out of the trunk. Back in the room, he dropped it on the table by the window and flipped it open. By the weak light through the blinds, and the familiarity of many, many previous usages, he found the chemical ice pack and wrung it into activity. Then he marched back to Dean's bed.

His brother had the covers up above his shoulders, but even in their shadow and the faint lighting, Sam could see the dark ligature line of bruising around Dean's throat. "Stupid," he whispered, addressing himself.

He'd been a little preoccupied, strapped to the Table of Death and all, but Sam had still seen Dean hanging from the rope far longer than was healthy. He'd sounded raspy when he'd assured Sam he was all right, after Jay had dispatched his old friend and the two Winchesters were subsequently released. Then they'd had to deal with a shot-dead magician and a grieving live one, and Dean had been walking and talking okay, and Sam had been thinking about Ruby, and he'd just…forgotten. Totally misplaced the fact that his brother had been suspended by the neck for nearly a minute that night.

"Hang on," Sam whispered over his brother's wheezing, arduous breaths. Then he gingerly draped the ice pack across his brother's neck.

Dean jolted, hissing a breath that instantly turned into a cough. It took only seconds for his face to turn dusky, swollen throat not up to the extra workload.

"Crap," Sam muttered, pressing against his brother's forehead, his laboring chest. "Dean! Dean, hey, it's okay. Just icing your throat. Listen to me, it's okay, all right? Slow breaths, man. Take it slow."

Dean's eyes were glassy—okay, so a little drunk—and there was still a whistle to his respirations Sam didn't like. But he gradually sank back into the bedding as his breathing slowed, his gaze still confused but fixed on Sam.

"Sorry, should've warned you, but I thought…" What, that his lifelong-hunter brother would just sleep through an icy weight settling on his throat? "Sorry," Sam repeated, then gave a wan smile. "You sound like a tea kettle, dude."

Dean swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut against the obvious pain of that move, then fumbled up to press the cold pack against his Adam's apple. "You should know," he whispered back in a wrecked voice. Sam was usually the chokee in their partnership.

Sam's conscience poked him. He wasn't sorry he'd gone out with Ruby, but maybe it could have waited a day. He'd seen the despair in Dean's eyes that night in the bar, the pain he absorbed from Jay, and Sam had run away from it. Dean needed him _so much_ since Hell, Sam felt nearly claustrophobic with it sometimes, and with Ruby at least he could _do _something. But how many nights had Dean patiently plied him with ice packs and painkillers and milkshakes after something else had gone after Sam's throat? He should have recognized the need—the physical, but also, yes, even more so the scary emotional—and been there to return the favor that evening. Dean would take care of his own bigger injuries, the bleeds and sprains and dislocations, but it was usually up to Sam to look after his comfort, to make sure he got his pills or cough syrup or ice and heat packs.

"Good walk?" Dean continued even though it clearly hurt him to talk.

Sam knew that feeling, too, the desperation to distract yourself from the crapfest that was really going on, and to keep your brother talking and close. He shrugged, feeling very small as he lied, "It was okay. It's Sioux City, man. Not exactly Vegas."

Dean snorted, coughed painfully again. Sam shot to his feet to grab a bottle of water from the table and twist the top off, holding it out. Dean pushed himself up on an elbow just enough to get a few sips in, then lay back down.

Sam took the bottle back and adjusted the ice pack that didn't really need adjusting. Dean's eyes crinkled shut, but Sam knew he wasn't sleeping. "Sorry," Sam finally offered.

"F'r what?" Dean's eyes stayed closed.

"Taking off on you. I should've…" _Taken care of you. Saved you from Hell. Found a way to keep you from going in the first place. Not gotten myself killed so you'd have to make that deal. Something. _

Silence. The low rumble of a car in the parking lot. More silence.

"I didn't mean that," Dean rasped into the pillow.

Sam blinked. "What?"

"'Bout there being no future for you. I still…" It was his turn to taper off, like forming the thoughts into words would make their wistfulness obvious. He shook his head, just a tiny bit. "'Ve been callin' everybody, my contacts and Dad's."

Okay, he hadn't been expecting that. Sam echoed "Calling?" in confusion, then, "About Lilith?"

A tiny nod. Dean's eyes were still very deliberately closed. "Tryin' to find a way, you know? Not just givin' up."

A way…to kill Lilith, Sam realized with a lump in his own throat. And, yeah, he himself had called a few people along with all the research he'd done, without any success. But Dean was telling him he was still fighting, for Sam at least—"…_there being no future for_ you," not "_us"_—that he was still trying to look after Sam. Considering that Dean seemed to have long ago given up on himself, the thought more than anything made Sam want to cry. He swallowed. "Yeah. Okay," he said softly.

They sat that way a while, Dean breathing with loud effort, Sam in silence but no more easily. He could still taste Ruby's blood on his tongue, remember Dean's words to Jay: _real magic…it's a whole lot like crack. People do surprising things once they get a taste of it. _

That wasn't why he was working with Ruby. It wasn't. It was to give his brother hope again, because if Dean gave up, Sam had nothing left.

"Go to bed, Sam," Dean breathed. "'M fine."

Not true, so not true. But it was what they did: pretended they were fine while they looked out for each other the best they could, even when one of them had PTSD from Hell and the other was on his way there. Sam pushed up blindly from the bed.

Dean grabbed his wrist, grip surprisingly strong. As Sam looked down in surprise, he saw his brother had finally opened his eyes and was looking at him, really looking. "We'll be okay, Sammy."

He didn't believe his brother's every promise anymore, but Sam clutched at the reassurance nonetheless. Because if Dean didn't believe Sam wasn't a monster anymore, he had no reason not to believe it himself. "Yeah," he murmured, smiling a little. "I know."

Dean settled back, face pale and hollow in the dim light. His eyes fluttered shut, and soon he was noisily asleep.

For that night, Sam would let that be enough. They'd survived another hunt, Dean was there with him, he was still calling him _Sammy_, swearing _we'll be okay. _Just for a little bit, Sam would let himself believe that was enough.

Wrapping himself in that comfort, Sam rolled into bed and went to sleep counting each of Dean's hard-won breaths.

**The End**


End file.
